A face in the thicket’s wreath
Is merely a silhouette bird wings smoke.
He is drift wood like his cock
The night before, thrown out
By princesses wave.
There is no perfect resolution
For his protocol, his environment frowns
On the shore’s vagina scalp
Littered with bone.
Where he went, I could only speculate.
But every time I smell a cigarette
Or an ember’s cologne, I think of him.
And menstruation’s blood
Glitters his upper lip. He can’t see it.